


picking up the pieces

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M, Pre-Reboot, Scars, tim drake distractor extraordinaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim has a kink for scars and frequent desire to make Jason shut up. Reasonably, an optimistic ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	picking up the pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for Jason's language, scars, mentions of death and injury. (I know autopsy scar headcanon doesn't really make sense but shh just go with it.)

“Jason?…”

“Yeah, sorry about that, Replacement, but I could actually, uh, use a hand if you can.”

Many things about this situation are strange — like Jason standing in his door (or more likely, barely standing on his feet) with the red helmet in one hand. Tim is surprised because he has no idea how Red Hood managed to find this place, aka his second apartment, where he can stay when he wants to work, not bothered, or he’s just tired of everyone. Only a few people know about this place, and even less have its address. And Jason isn’t one of them — well, that’s what Tim thought.

And even if, he’d expect for Red Hood to give a try through the window or something. He must have been really desperate or —

Tim’s eyes narrow as he opens the door further to let Jason in. He seems tired to the bone, his thick hair messy — attractive kind of messy, though, Tim thinks. But then he sees blood on Jason’s jacket, his leather gloves are ripped.

“Are you hurt?” he asks and realizes it’s a stupid question, so he asks again, “How badly?”

“Not sure,” Jason replies, basically letting to be led into the main space, a mix of kitchen, dining room and living room. Tim thinks that passive Jason is really a unique view. “I’ve been kicking asses of some gun dealers and things were going pretty well till one of them pulled out a sword.”

“Sword?” Tim sits him on a long, laminated table. “And why on earth somebody would be carrying a sword with themselves?”

“Dunno. Forgot to ask, he’s been too busy with shaving off my back with it.”

Tim sighs quietly and commands, “Take off the jacket, I’ll get the kit.”

As he goes to his small room filled with bandages and drugs and some medical equipment — mini-hospital, actually — he hears Jason speak again — and it’s strange, because Jason never talks more than he finds it necessary.

“Would’ve gone to Oracle, but her place is too far away.” Tim isn’t surprised. He suspected that Jason and Barbara have gotten along some time ago; probably she was the first person Jason had made his uneasy peace with when they all stopped fighting each other. “The manor was nearer, but — I didn’t want to stumble there on anyone but Alfred. And that could’ve been hard.” The voice is unusually calm and slow, almost sleepy. Grabbing the stuff he needs, Tim thinks that it can be actually the first time when he hears Jason not tensed, not pumped out.

“So, how you knew where to find me?” he questions, coming back with the kit. Jason’s jacket seems to be written off. “Even Dick doesn’t know.”

His predecessor smiles a small, wry smile — but for once, it’s not scathing. “Duh, maybe I don’t do that often nowadays, but I still have those detective skills or whatever.”

Tim can’t help himself and snorts. He puts the kit on the table and opens it. “How are the fingers?”

“Uh, numb, but fine, I suppose.” Jason shakes his head, dark hair with a white streak falling on his eyes. “It’s not like I’m gonna play the piano or something.”

“But you play guitar,” Tim says before he can bite his tongue. _Shit. Can’t you keep your mouth shut when needed?_

“Haven’t played in ages… But how would you know, anyway?” Jason sounds curious, not angry or wry.

He looks for an excuse, an explanation, and — “Alfred told me once.”

“Oh.”

Yeah, it’s not like Tim was sneaking into Jason’s old room in the manor and found there a guitar case. Obviously. He’s glad the lighting is bad because he may be blushing a little.

“I’ll have to cut the shirt,” he says instead, taking scissors.

“Thought so. Go ahead, kid.”

The shirt is tugged to the wound and that’s why it comes off so hard. He hears Jason hiss quietly, but he doesn’t stop until the whole fabric gets off the back. Now Tim needs some light, so he reaches out for a switch to turn the lamp on.

“Gotta admit, you have quite a nice place here,” Jason says shifting in his seat.

“Uh, thanks.”

The light is switched and Tim gets a better look at Jason’s back. For a longer moment he’s too shocked to do anything. Then, he swears loudly, staring in pure horror.

“Aw man. It looks that bad? I’ve never heard you swear.” If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Jason is trying to… cheer up the mood. Yeah, crazy. “Will have to give a nice payback then.”

“No, it’s not that,” Tim answers, his fingertips lightly running over the older man’s back. “The wound itself is jagged and rugged, but I can take care of it. It’s just —”

Jason’s back are scarred — though, it’s an understanding. His back is like a battlefield, a map of suffering. He can see — he sees raw, old marks left by a crowbar. Skin is traced with long, irregular shapes and it takes him a moment to realize that these are the scars from explosion. There are others, too — newer, probably gained after coming back. But Tim can’t take his eyes off the old ones.

He knows — they all know, more or less willing to admit — that Jason came back missing parts. Robin died when he had got beaten up to death by a psycho with a crowbar, some other pieces of Jason Todd — in the meantime between being resurrected and getting shoved into the Lazarus Pit. He suspects that the Pit wasn’t too helpful as well — not for Jason’s mind, anyway. And yet again — he doesn’t know what he expected. But not this. Not in such extension.

“Oh. Sorry, I forgot to give you heads up,” Jason says in a bitter note. “The first time you see them is pretty fucking terrible, from what I heard.”

“The Pit — it didn’t heal them?” Tim’s breath is a little heavy, his fingers still lightly touching Jason’s back.

“Dunno. Some, probably. But not the rest. The resurrection itself was harsh, too — I was just brought back. Not so much for healing.”

Tim makes himself to get the hydrogen peroxide to clean the wound. Jason shifts under his touch and it causes Tim to ask another question, “Do they still hurt?”

He hears a quiet sigh. “Sometimes,” Jason admits vaguely, “and sometimes they just itch. Can get used to. Same old pain, after all.”

Tim doesn’t like the answer. It sets anxiety in his stomach. Regardless, he continues clearing the wound and then stitches it. For a few minutes, it’s just silence between them, filled with quiet hissing and murmurs.

Then, he asks, “Why did you come to me?”

Jason shifts on the table, uncomfortable. “Told you, Babs' place was too far and I didn’t want to —”

“No, I ask why you came to _me_ , directly.”

In answer, there’s silence for a while. Tim actually regrets he doesn’t have a better look at his face. Then, Jason snaps, “I figured out it’s been awhile since I last tried to kill you. Hoped my coming wouldn’t be taken as an attack. Or whatever.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, thinking about this answer. His fingers gently study the fracture of scars, their roughness, irregularity; it both terrifies and fascinates him. Jason doesn’t seem to mind; after a moment, he exhales deeply and relaxes.

“Funny thing, Replacement, your touch is soothing.”

“So I’ve been told,” Tim agrees lightly.

“Really? By whom?”

He just laughs and says, “Show me your hands.”

Jason grumbles a little, but does as ordered. Tim glances at them and frowns.

“Did you take a hold of that sword?” he asks.

“Could’ve happened somewhere along the fight,” Jason agrees, somewhat absently. “Bastard had a long blade.”

This time is harder for Tim, because he’s standing in front of Jason and it’s so close, face-to-face almost. He tries not to think about Jason’s breath tickling his neck, his hair occasionally falling on his face. Tim is focused on scarred hands, cut sharply and covered in blood. It’s not until Jason snaps, “Are you afraid of me?”

Tim stops binding man’s right hand and eyes him. _Such a strange compilation of icy blue and fogged grey_ , he thinks, before saying, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Then Jason smirks, shaking his head. “And who sounds ridiculous now, Red? You’re a smart bird, but honestly, I’m starting to think that you’re at least a little fucked up here,” he points at head.

“Aren’t we all?” Tim raises one eyebrow. Jason just stares at him and it causes the younger to sigh. “Look — things happened. But they’re the past now. No need to come back to them over and over again.”

“Well, you can never know.” Blue-grey eyes glimmer in the poor lighting. “If I won’t snap and go all crazy again. Anytime. Could be now.”

Yes, that’s true. Tim doesn’t know because there are many things about Jason Todd he doesn’t know and maybe he’ll never find out. But yet —

“Don’t think so.” He starts to bind the second hand. “And even if, I’d kick your ass.”

For several seconds, there’s a heavy silence and Tim thinks that perhaps he was wrong, he was wrong all along —

and then Jason laughs. It’s not a short kind of a bark or wry snorting; it’s just normal, honest laugh. And Tim can’t help but smile slightly. This night is full of new experiences and he can add hearing Jason laughing to the list as well.

When he’s done with bandaging, Jason murmurs a thanks and slips off the table. He clenches fists to check how strong the bandages are. Then he nods with approval and says all of sudden, “Crap.”

Tim wrinkles his nose and it takes him a moment to understand. “Oh, the shirt, right?” When Jason agrees, he offers, “I can get you something of mine.”

Jason snorts. “Appreciate that, baby bird, and take no offense, but you’re pretty fucking small compared to me.”

Tim just waves a hand at him, ordering to stay in place. He goes to his small bedroom and opens the door to the wardrobe. There are not many clothes in this apartment, but he’s almost sure that somewhere here should be that too big sweater he got from Dana a few months ago. And — ah, here it is.

When he comes back, he sees that Jason has already taken off his shirt. Yet again, Tim is thankful for the fact that the lighting in here is pretty bad, and he can only see Jason’s bare profile. Very nice profile, if somebody bothers to ask.

“Uh, here you go,” he clears his throat and comes closer to give him the sweater. The lamp is buzzing quietly.

“Thanks.” Jason turns to him and when he sees the sweater, he raises his eyebrows, like he’s amused. But before he even gets a chance to comment this, Tim hisses through his gritted teeth.

The autopsy scar is faint and red, doesn’t particularly stands out, but at the same time, it’s hard to miss it. Y-shaped scar is just stitched across Jason’s torso, its arms beginning at the edges of his collarbones and meeting in the middle of chest.

“Oh.” Jason looks down, like he forgot the scar is here. There’s a sour smile on his lips. “Looks creepy, doesn’t it? Some people are totally down for it, but they don't really get why I would make myself such tattoo.”

Tim doesn’t seem to be in control of his hands tonight. They let go of the sweater and just go up; his fingertips slowly tracing the line of scar. It’s sewed up indeed, at some points the stitch is lost, like the pathologist’s hand was trembling and — and it’s just so _real_ , so damn real he can actually feel his heart stop for a moment.

Jason doesn’t flinch under the touch, but his breathing is slightly uneven. Tim feels Jason's heart beating fast and strongly under his fingers . It’s marvelous, as well as very intimidating.

“Don’t you — don’t you get, I don’t know, grossed out by that?” Jason asks him, his voice subdued.

“Oddly, no.” It’s horrifying, yes, but actually, Tim is amazed. He has never had a strange fascination for scars — and he’s got quite an impressive collection of his own. But Jason’s scars are different; they are like the story that could have, _should have_ been told, but something ( _everything_ ) went wrong and now shadow has set its place there. Except, this story is Jason’s life.

“You don’t seem to pay attention to them, though,” he makes a careful assumption. “Not anymore.”

Jason just shrugs, looking away. “If you ask me why I don’t express so much self-pity, there are a few good reasons. My whole life is a constant reminder of this. Scars are just — a part of me, at this point. Along with that rage and blame and ha—”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish because Tim wants him to shut up. And he doesn’t really know how to do so, so he kisses him.

It’s not easy, as Jason is taller than him and it’d be pretty parodic for Tim to stand on his tiptoes. Luckily, he can grab back of his head and pull him into the kiss. As he suspected, Jason’s lips are dry and a bit swollen, but the kiss itself feels soft. He isn’t quite sure what’s happening, as their bodies get pressed together, Jason’s bare chest is heated against him and it makes Tim feel dizzy —

Jason pulls away suddenly. Unusually, there are many emotions drawn on his face, like confusion, and disbelief, all among adorable flush on his cheeks.

“Whoa there, baby bird. Shit.” Jason is acting strange; Tim thinks it must be the first time when uncertainty is both in his eyes and voice. “It’s not like I complain because you’re a pretty fucking good kisser as for a teen. But. What the fuck are you doing.”

There would be too much explaining, so he goes with the easiest — but still true — answer. “I did it because you wouldn't shut up.”

“Uh.” Jason blinks; this response seems to confuse him even more. “You could’ve asked me to or something.”

Tim sighs heavily, throwing his hands in the air. “Ugh, you’re impossible. Is it really that weird?” Then he waves his finger. “Okay, don’t answer, bad question. It’s just —” he trails off.

There are many things Jason doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know that as much as Tim tried to dislike him when he replaced Dick as Robin — he ended up idolizing him.

He doesn’t know that once, when Tim saw Robin smoking on patrol, he finagled himself a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and he started coughing terribly after the first one. (It was the first and the last time he tried to smoke.)

Tim has a very good memory and he remembers lots of things, like the boy with a quick smile, always ready to help, never scared enough ( _never, until it was too late to be afraid_ ). And last months, when Jason was actually nice to him in that sarcastic (and usually annoying) way or when he patched him up twice after solo actions that went wrong. Or even that time when he made him really upset with the stupid talk and Tim punched him in the face — and Jason stared at him, completely stunned, with his ass on the ground, and along the swearing, he said something like, “Congrats, Replacement, I actually start to fucking think that maybe you deserve more damn credit from me.”

But it would all require so much talking on which Tim isn’t quite ready yet — and honestly, there are other things they could be doing right now. “I kissed you because I wanted to.” He pauses for a moment, giving Jason time to process this information. “And I’d like to do it again, if you promise not to pull away so abruptly this time.”

He isn’t sure how long they just stand here before, eyeing each other. Then, Jason snaps out of sudden, “You realize that technically we’re brothers.” Corners of his mouth are twitching up slightly.

Tim groans. “You didn’t have to remind me.”

Jason laughs at that, barefacedly. “And just when I thought this family can’t get more fucked up.” That bastard is still laughing when their lips meet for the second time. Now, there’s no hesitation, no holding back and this kiss — it’s everything Tim never knew he wanted.

Taking the events of this night, he thinks that there are many things Jason doesn’t know, but perhaps there will be plenty of time to share them.

(Though, he will keep the story with the cigarette to himself. He’s not going to admit to this. _Not a chance_.)


End file.
